Rossweisse, the cancer may be taking your body but your Spirit is alive and all of as who are witnesses to your journey will carry you. I think of you when I hear a piece of classical music on the radio, when I am offered a glass of wine with friends, and now, when I see those ornery crows - I now laugh more often at their antics instead of getting angry at them. In your sadness, never despair that you have not made a difference. Prayers and peace to you.
May all the forces of light, good, love, peace, and music converge with orneries to comfort you and bless this journey and guide your carers in wisdom and compassion to all that's best.
"Worse than I had been led to believe" are words that hit like the proverbial ton of bricks. I pray you are surrounded by loving care. His eye is on the sparrow. And also on the Orneries.
Praying for Peace of Mind for you
You never know - I may end up on that drug when it proves successful and gets all the FDA approvals and gets put on a boat to here
Rossweisse... I've long believed that this thing is more adventure than journey, and I think you are proving it. It takes courage of a special kind to be able to tell your story so calmly. I hope you can feel the Ship prayers from all round the world wrapping themselves around you while the adventure continues to unfold.
Rossweisse... I've long believed that this thing is more adventure than journey, and I think you are proving it. It takes courage of a special kind to be able to tell your story so calmly. I hope you can feel the Ship prayers from all round the world wrapping themselves around you while the adventure continues to unfold.
That is a good description, and it reminded me of how we felt when so many were praying for Miss M, my young granddaughter, when she had acute leukaemia. Wrapped in love and prayers.
So Ross, my prayer this morning is for you to know this love and encouragement from us to you.
I don't often weep; the last time I had a good solid cry before yesterday afternoon was when my beloved father died in February 2016. I don't think I've cried over this cancer more than three or four times in almost nine years.
I have now cried twice in just a little over 24 hours: Once upon learning that I'm losing my beloved oncological team, and once on reading your wonderful, loving comments here. Every one of them has touched me deeply.
Thank you so much. It truly makes a difference. I do feel the love, and the prayers, both here and in some private messages. I also feel more hope than I have in a while.
The Ship has been an important part of my life. You are all an important part of my life. Thank you for the blessing that you are; I know that the knowledge of your love, prayers, and presence will be an invaluable aid to me on the road ahead.
I'm not dead yet! I will stay aboard while I may. (Damn - I never managed my longtime goal of being a Host.)
Forgive me if I am overstepping the line here Rossweisse.
I pray that you are given opportunity to live as well as survive.
I pray that you are surrounded by those who support you in your decisions.
I pray that your health clinicians know you well enough to listen- and treat you- and not just your cancer.
I pray that our online community continues to add joy to your living.
And at such time, to your dying
And to a celebration of a life lived and loved.
All of this sounds a rollercoaster Rossweisse. As always I wish you well as you journey forward with courage and tenacity. You really are an inspiration.
I've just read "in this House of Brede" a book about someone who enters a monastery of nuns. In it, the nuns speak of "tucking someone in their sleeves" - always there , always in prayers. Ross, you are tucked in my sleeve: whenever I speak to God, it is not long before your name is mentioned. I believe He is holding you tightly but gently, and I pray you will be aware of his presence. May you have peace and wholeness. God bless, dear (virtual) friend.
I recently re-read In This House of Brede as well. Tucked in our sleeves indeed!
Yay for being "in," Rossweisse!
I feel that I need to tell you that I read your post Tuesday night, and each morning since I have woken up with a song running through my head, which has continued to break in at various points in the day. The song each morning has been Leonard Cohen's "Come Healing" (may his memory be a blessing) and prayers for you and others onboard the Ship and on land have been wound in and around the poetry and the music.
I shouldn't take the bait, even from a supremely conceited and deliberately annoying individual. And I don't like making extra work for the H&As. I will admit that I was a bit taken aback by her accusing me of suffering from "febrile delusion," but this is not a person who is remotely sensitive to the concerns of others, so I shouldn't have been surprised. (No fevers here, and my brain is still in pretty good shape.)
From your posts on a wide range of topics, your brain is clearly in excellent shape!
I've completed my first week back at work. Everyone has told me to go gently, and I honestly thought I had - I really didn't do much last week. Yet I still feel knackered. Frustrating.
From your posts on a wide range of topics, your brain is clearly in excellent shape!
I've completed my first week back at work. Everyone has told me to go gently, and I honestly thought I had - I really didn't do much last week. Yet I still feel knackered. Frustrating.
That line from Monty Python keeps coming back to me: "Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!" That is about all I can say about the after effects of chemo without getting obscenely blasphemous.
My imagination pictures the febriles as some sort of nasty rodent, spreading fleas and dirt. Luckily the orneries are raptors, swooping down and disposing of them!
I went back to the new hospital today (which is a terribly inefficient place, compared to the other one, its sister institution, only about five miles away), and finally (after being parked by the pharmacy window for 45 minutes) got the study drugs. (I'm getting a second, side-effects-counteracting drug as well, but they phoned that one in to my regular pharmacy. Seriously?) The research oncologist is very nice, and so is his staff, but I really miss the old setup. So it goes.
I hope so! I will start taking the pills on Thursday.
I shouldn't complain about the inefficiencies. I was just trying to get to my cancer support group, my driver had to get an appointment of his own, and it was hard to understand just what was taking so long in every new situation, with the pharmacy wait the cherry on top. (Late-running docs I understand...)
"..a second, side-effects-counteracting drug as well..."
... and then there will be side-effects of side-effects of side-effects counteracting drugs as well until you are spinning so fast all the cancer cells will leave your body by centrifugal force. It might not be the stuff of grand opera, but I could see a ballet in it. A scary time, I know, but sort of exciting too, isn't it? This is chemo anniversary time for me, so I'm sharing my thoughtsandprayers with you.
The reason they were running 45 minutes late is that the doctor forgot to sign the scrip, and he was in with patients. Apparently no one could catch him as he went from one to the next. Oh, well.
Because I have a Big Deal to attend on Wednesday night, I'm not starting the drugs until Thursday. Life is always interesting!
Fuckety fuck...a good friend of ours messaged MrD today to say that his wife was diagnosed two weeks ago with an aggressive form of liver cancer, and is already in a hospice. We don't know how long she has. It's a bugger.
On this night, 15 years ago, while I was leading youth group, I got the call to come home and not to hurry as my mother had passed after an eight week resurgence of cancer. On this night last September, my step-mother's family gathered around my father to sing, pray, read scriptures, and tell stories. He had been healthy until he wasn't eight weeks before his death. He died on the morning of the 11th of September. Tonight, I grieve the loss of them both and mourn the toll that cancer takes both on the person and on their family. I do not regret that they both died at home with the care of their partner and daughter. If you know there can be no other outcome, it is a privilege to spend those last weeks in comfort. And it is a privilege to be able to be trusted to care for them.
Comments
You never know - I may end up on that drug when it proves successful and gets all the FDA approvals and gets put on a boat to here
That is a good description, and it reminded me of how we felt when so many were praying for Miss M, my young granddaughter, when she had acute leukaemia. Wrapped in love and prayers.
So Ross, my prayer this morning is for you to know this love and encouragement from us to you.
Indeed. I don't pray anymore, except when I do. Like now.
I have now cried twice in just a little over 24 hours: Once upon learning that I'm losing my beloved oncological team, and once on reading your wonderful, loving comments here. Every one of them has touched me deeply.
Thank you so much. It truly makes a difference. I do feel the love, and the prayers, both here and in some private messages. I also feel more hope than I have in a while.
The Ship has been an important part of my life. You are all an important part of my life. Thank you for the blessing that you are; I know that the knowledge of your love, prayers, and presence will be an invaluable aid to me on the road ahead.
I'm not dead yet! I will stay aboard while I may. (Damn - I never managed my longtime goal of being a Host.)
Okay, I'm getting weepy again.
Thank you, @Patdys, for this:
For most people, styling themselves after a Valkyrie would be an overreach, but for you, Ross, it's about right.
I learned today that my echocardiogram passed muster; I'm in the test. Now I just need to be one of those whom the study drug helps.
Yay for being "in," Rossweisse!
I feel that I need to tell you that I read your post Tuesday night, and each morning since I have woken up with a song running through my head, which has continued to break in at various points in the day. The song each morning has been Leonard Cohen's "Come Healing" (may his memory be a blessing) and prayers for you and others onboard the Ship and on land have been wound in and around the poetry and the music.
Blessings, "cuz"!
Ross, continued prayers ascending.
<tentative, gentle, virtual hug>
I've completed my first week back at work. Everyone has told me to go gently, and I honestly thought I had - I really didn't do much last week. Yet I still feel knackered. Frustrating.
And thank you, Robert Armin! You have to go slowly at first, but you also have to build in extra time to rest. Things will improve with time.
That line from Monty Python keeps coming back to me: "Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!" That is about all I can say about the after effects of chemo without getting obscenely blasphemous.
Just keep on keeping on!
I went back to the new hospital today (which is a terribly inefficient place, compared to the other one, its sister institution, only about five miles away), and finally (after being parked by the pharmacy window for 45 minutes) got the study drugs. (I'm getting a second, side-effects-counteracting drug as well, but they phoned that one in to my regular pharmacy. Seriously?) The research oncologist is very nice, and so is his staff, but I really miss the old setup. So it goes.
I shouldn't complain about the inefficiencies. I was just trying to get to my cancer support group, my driver had to get an appointment of his own, and it was hard to understand just what was taking so long in every new situation, with the pharmacy wait the cherry on top. (Late-running docs I understand...)
But isn't it one of Life's Little Ironies that, just when you want to crack on, and get things done, Daemons take over, and hold everything up?
... and then there will be side-effects of side-effects of side-effects counteracting drugs as well until you are spinning so fast all the cancer cells will leave your body by centrifugal force. It might not be the stuff of grand opera, but I could see a ballet in it. A scary time, I know, but sort of exciting too, isn't it? This is chemo anniversary time for me, so I'm sharing my thoughtsandprayers with you.
Because I have a Big Deal to attend on Wednesday night, I'm not starting the drugs until Thursday. Life is always interesting!